Coming Home to Dixie

It’s Mother’s Day.

This will be my sixth year as a mother, and not a day goes by where I don’t simultaneously feel completely fulfilled and satisfied being a mother on one hand—and completely inadequate and worried I’m messing it all up on the other.

Mothers play such an integral role in a child’s life. There’s a reason for the old joke about lying on a psychiatrist’s couch tracing all your problems back to your mother. It all starts with the mother. The comfort. The security. The discipline. The voice inside your head that eventually becomes your own.

And honestly? There have been so many moments these past six years where I’ve thought to myself: I deserve some sort of trophy for this.

Not a glamorous trophy. Not one with applause and confetti.

But maybe one engraved with something like:
“Survived bodily fluids, emotional breakdowns, and motherhood with minimal permanent damage.”

For example, I’ll never forget driving back from Santa Cruz after Siena’s 10th birthday trip. We had a long three-hour drive ahead of us on a winding road with no shoulder to pull onto. Out of nowhere, Siena projectile vomited all over the car.

The sound alone nearly made me vomit.

The smell was indescribable. I remember gripping the steering wheel trying not to cry while simultaneously reassuring her that it was okay even though internally I was screaming. There were no exits for miles. Finally, about six miles later, we found a gas station. I spent the next hour in a tiny bathroom scrubbing vomit out of her clothes and shoes while trying to clean the car with whatever supplies I could find on the shelves inside.

Not long after that, Roslynn had her own stomach-related disaster, and once again motherhood called me to rise above and beyond what should reasonably be expected of another human being.

Mothers truly do not get enough credit.

But honestly, the physical stuff isn’t the hardest part.

The emotional side of motherhood is what truly brings me to my knees.

As the girls get older, the challenges get bigger and heavier. Bullying. Friendships. Kindness. Choices. Self-worth. Trauma. ADHD. Adoption. Identity. Emotions that are too big for growing bodies to hold.

And sometimes I sit there at night and think: Am I doing this right?

I lose my temper sometimes. I yell. And then afterward I replay those moments over and over in my mind. I question myself constantly.

But I also know that despair is exactly where the enemy wants mothers to live. Exhausted. Hopeless. Feeling like failures.

And I refuse to stay there.

Because deep down, I know this is my purpose.

I truly believe God brought these girls into my life intentionally—that my own story as an adopted child was preparing me to become their mother. So they would know someone understands. Really understands. Not just the pretty version of adoption, but the grief and confusion and identity struggles that can come with it too.

There have been incredibly beautiful moments over these last six years.

Driving across the country together last summer with three dogs, four cats, a bird, two vehicles, and a trailer while repeatedly breaking down along the way somehow still feels unreal. It was stressful and chaotic and hilarious all at once. But we did it together. And now those memories belong to us forever.

Then recently, when I ended up in the hospital for a week, I realized something else:

I am the glue that holds this family together.

And that realization felt both meaningful and crushing.

My family struggled while I was gone. My youngest especially couldn’t cope with it emotionally. Everyone needed something from me. Comfort. Guidance. Stability. Reassurance.

So many days are like that.

Everyone needs me.

And sometimes it overwhelms me how many roles mothers carry: Nurturer. Therapist. Mediator. Judge. Teacher. Problem-solver. Motivator. Spiritual leader. Role model.

The list never ends.

Some of the most mentally exhausting work I’ve ever done has been trying to create behavior systems that actually work for the girls. Over the years, we’ve adapted and changed them constantly as they’ve grown. I involve them in the process so it feels fair and personal to them. We’ve learned that positive reinforcement mixed with some negative consequences tends to work best for our family.

Sometimes that means earning money or phone privileges. Sometimes it means losing TV or writing 200 sentences.

It works… until it doesn’t.

And then we regroup, sit down together, and start again.

Whew.

So where’s the trophy?

I suppose it’s invisible.

Written quietly onto my heart in those sacred moments where I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am meant to be their mother—and they are meant to be my daughters.

My trophy is seeing them happy.

Seeing them thrive in school.

Watching them laugh with me around the dining room table as we play games together.

Hearing them lead morning devotions and prayer.

Watching them slowly grow into beautiful young women—inside and out.

That is the reward.

And despite the exhaustion, despite the worry, despite the moments where I feel completely unequipped for the job…

I am so thankful that I get to call myself their mother.